by Mary Carter
Lacey threw the letter down and escaped into the bathroom. Rookie followed, cautious and watchful. She flipped on the light and met her blue eyes in the mirror. Did her mother look more destroyed than Lacey did right now? Did she look like her mother or her father? Correction. Did “they” look like their mother or their father? She was a “they.” She always thought she’d never have access to her family tree; it would remain stripped and barren, ghostly branches stretching out to nowhere. She preferred it that way.
Now she had a living mother. A father. Or she did. Who knew if they were still alive? There were so many questions. Too many. Even some kind of sick game show, some sensational reality flick, wouldn’t force her to face so many questions at once. Take it one step at a time. She had a sister. Who looked just like her.
Someone else saw Lacey’s exact face in the mirror every day. So much for “we are all unique,” so much for snowflakes. Someone who was out there right now. Someone who shared her exact DNA. And she didn’t even know she existed. Or did she?
Lacey was not an original. It felt so wrong. Draconian. Identity theft! Lacey saw pain in her face, and fear. She saw beads of sweat along her jawline and underneath her lip. Rookie nuzzled her ankle, as if apologizing for something. Lacey did not bend down and pet him. You have no idea who you are, she told her reflection. Your entire life has been a lie. Your family threw you away like a piece of trash.
Because she was deaf? That wasn’t possible. This was the United States of America. Whoops, we accidentally got two, would you like one? Here, take this one. She’s slightly damaged. According to the hearing world, the one she had no choice but to live in, the one whose labels she’d been trying to dodge her whole life—that’s who considered her damaged—she was “as is.” No refunds, no returns.
Lacey didn’t hold this view of herself, or her culture. She’d jokingly wished she could live on a completely Deaf planet, live a life free of the limitations hearing people tried to rope her with, communicate only through American Sign Language, never have to explain, or tutor, or teach, or “Speak, Lacey, speak!” or play the system. She’d never wanted to be on that planet more than she did right now.
Right now, breaking into someone else’s bottle of rare scotch didn’t seem like such a big deal. Sussing out everything she could on those monstrous people who deserted her was the only thing that mattered. And drinking was the only way she could finish the letter. With renewed purpose, Lacey marched back to the coffee table and snatched up the letter.
Your father stayed in the car, so I didn’t see him, but like I said, your mother was a wreck. She kept saying, “It’s for the best. They insist it’s for the best.”
I can’t imagine any reason good enough for abandoning your own child, and even though you were the one who gave me the most gray hairs, you’ll always be one of my favorites. I wish you the best in your search for your twin.
Much love,
Margaret
P.S. If you ever come within ten feet of Blackie again, I will call the police and TAKE OUT A RESTRAINING ORDER!!!!!!!
Lacey was halfway to drunk when she finally dug into the envelope and pulled out the toy. It was a small, blue plastic horse. Well, half of one anyway. The back half. It looked as if it had been sawed down the middle. It was littered with tooth marks. Just holding the sawed-off horse was making her hands shake, or maybe it was the alcohol. She would have to tell Mike he was right, this was the good stuff. She took another swig. At first it burned, then it was silk sliding down her throat. The room was spinning. Rookie curled up on the La-Z-Boy, with one eye tucked into his paw, the other staring up at her reproachfully.
Taking the horse and the bottle of scotch with her, Lacey got up and wobbled across the expanse to her section. She needed the comfort of her easels. She needed to smell and touch her paints, see her brushes tipped upside down in their assigned cups, a yellow plastic one for acrylics, an old jam jar for her oil brushes, and a regular drinking glass for her watercolor brushes.
But it was really the stack of paintings against the back wall she was after. She banged her hip on her table and sloshed a bit of the scotch. The containers wiggled, the brushes shimmied. She slammed the bottle of scotch down on the table and giggled. She headed for her paintings, the ones she’d never shown anyone, not even Alan. She put the toy horse in her mouth, dropped to her knees and yanked off the tarp that hid them.
There were at least a hundred of them in different poses and sizes. In some he filled the whole canvas; in others, his face was as tiny as the toy she held in her mouth. The colors in the background varied, but he was always painted with a tinge of blue, be it eyes, hooves, even blue nostrils on one. And it was always just his head, and the front half of his body—did she ever realize that? A hundred painted horses and not one with hind legs, a rear end, or a tail? She’d been painting him ever since she picked up a brush at the age of five. She’d always thought painting the front half of the horse was an artistic choice. She’d been wrong. All this time. She wasn’t just expressing herself as an artist. She’d been trying to tell herself something. All these years, she’d been painting a message to herself. All these years, she’d been painting her other half.
Chapter 8
It would be easy enough to blame the bottle of rare scotch. But who was responsible for taking it out of the cupboard, unscrewing the cap, and taking the first of many sips? She wasn’t used to drinking alcohol. Already having a problem with balance, she never liked the feeling of being tipsy; it was akin to vertigo, and even though she could usually handle a glass of wine with dinner, or one or two beers with Alan on the deck, anything stronger would send her body spinning in the most unpleasant way. She didn’t want a carousel in her head.
She could blame dumb luck. After all, she’d never, ever, seen Mike come into the studio on a Sunday, and they’d been sharing the space for five years. In one way, she was grateful he appeared; at least he took the rest of the bottle of scotch away from her. In her state she might have finished it off. She was sitting in the middle of her horse paintings and quite drunk when he came in. She had the paintings spread out on the floor, as if waiting for them to speak to her, tell her the story of her missing half. In some, the horse looked sad. In most, he looked angry, his head tossed back, his nostrils flaring. In many his two front legs were reared up, and with his lower body hacked off, looked like a ghostly equestrian specter rising out of the heavens. From the shocking white of blank canvases to the blues and grays and blacks of backless horses flailing their hooves through swirling clouds, their neighs and whinnies fell on deaf ears. Why couldn’t she remember her sister? Nine months in the womb. Did they hold hands? Kiss? Kick each other in the groin? Wrestle with the umbilical cord, try and pull it apart like a wishbone? Three years together as toddlers, a whole life, a secret language. She never questioned that most of her memories started at the age of four.
From somewhere behind her, Mike entered the studio and flashed the lights. This was the protocol they had set up in the beginning. Lacey didn’t like people sneaking up on her. But this time she didn’t even notice the lights blinking on and off. She was too taken with her thoughts, her inner carousel of sawed-off horses spinning. She didn’t even feel his footsteps or see his shadow stretch along the wall beside her. A hand touched her shoulder and she jumped. Mike’s expensive scotch sloshed out of the bottle, coating both of them in sticky sweet. They stared at each other, equally surprised. Lacey watched Mike’s face register disbelief and then horror as he realized that the near-empty bottle in her hand was none other than his prized bottle.
“I’m sorry,” Lacey said, using her voice. Being drunk and deaf, it wasn’t a pretty sound. Mike opened his mouth, but there was nothing for Lacey to lip-read, for nothing came out. She started crying. She didn’t want pity, she just couldn’t take any more of this day. “I’ll pay for it,” she said, holding up the bottle, sloshing some more. Mike took it out of her hands and turned away from her. Oh no. How angry was he? She
couldn’t tell. His face was blurry, and he was turning away from her.
She liked Mike. Sometimes when they were alone in the space, she found herself watching him, totally absorbed in his work: sawing, soldering, hammering. Then came the part she liked best. He’d take his safety goggles off and stand back, contemplating his creation. It was “eye-dropping” on these private moments that made Lacey feel as if she could understand his thoughts, live inside his creative dream.
He was tall with dark curly hair and green eyes. He had muscles from carving through steel and wood. His nose was perhaps a little too big for his face, maybe his eyebrows a little too bushy, but his imperfections made him appear friendlier, more accessible. Lacey could tell he had a nice laugh, even though she could only see it. Mostly he kept to himself. Sometimes they’d chat by writing back and forth, sometimes they shared magazine articles or books. He knew a few signs, but more often than not they conversed in writing. He never tried to hit on Lacey, nor had she ever dreamed of seducing him.
“I’ll pay for it,” Lacey said, stumbling after Mike. He didn’t even turn around. She felt like she was throwing her voice down an endless well. He disappeared into the kitchen. Lacey followed, wondering how she could make this right. He must really hate her. But when he turned toward her, he was holding a glass of water and a towel. He brought the towel up to her face and began to dab away the scotch and tears. His kindness ignited a flame of longing in Lacey, and the wall of denial she’d spent all morning assembling, brick by brick, collapsed. In an instant she was sobbing against his chest.
“Shh,” he said, even though she couldn’t hear him. “It’s okay.” He stroked her hair. She laced her hands behind his neck. She pulled him closer. She just needed to be held. She knew it should have been Alan. She knew it would have been Alan if only she had told him what happened at the bookstore. I have a twin sister was all she had to say. I have a twin sister.
Mike felt different from Alan, he smelled different from Alan. Not good, not bad, just different. One second she was wondering what it would be like to kiss him, the next she was leaning in to find out. She channeled all the day’s frustrations into his lips. It was a gentle attack, an act of release. She pressed him against the kitchen counter so she could lean all the way into him. She reached down, put her hands over the outside of his jeans. She should stop. It was not too late. So far they’d just shared a little kiss, a one-way grope. They would part, awkward, yes, but it would soon be forgotten. She was drunk. Drunk men pawed at sober women all the time; surely she’d be forgiven. She could stop now and confess everything to Alan:
My biological parents didn’t die tragically at a young age, they threw me away like a piece of trash and kept the perfect one. Oh, and I stole a bottle of Mike’s scotch and apologized by sticking my tongue in his mouth and my hand down his pants. Are we good?
No, it was too late, and even if it wasn’t, she wasn’t stopping.
She unbuttoned his snap, pulled down the zipper. Did it make a ripping noise? Was it silent? He pulled away. He tried to get her to look at him. She wouldn’t. She started undressing as she backed up toward the couch. She pulled her T-shirt off in one go. The bra was next. She didn’t stop even though he was zipping up. When she felt her backside touch the couch, she reached down and unzipped her jeans. She locked eyes with Mike. He looked stunned and hesitant, but made no move to stop her. This made it easy on Lacey to keep going, having someone else to blame. She slipped out of her jeans and lay down on the couch. Then she slowly pulled her panties off and pulled her knees up as Mike watched. In a second, deliberate movement, she spread them. Mike didn’t need a sky writer. Message “Sent” and “Received.”
In her imagination:
He climbed on top of her, smothering her with the weight of his body, crushing his lips to hers, exploring her with his fingers. The first time he tried to enter her, he missed. Whoops, a little too far to the left, try again—no, that’s too low—he doesn’t think I want it THERE, does he? No, he just slipped. Is he drunk too? Should I help guide him in? The Deaf leading the blind? AAAAAAA. Bingo! You’re in—oh God, yes. Yes, yes, yes. I’m not really doing this, am I? Shut up, it feels good. I’m sorry, Alan, but it does. Don’t say his name, don’t see his face, stop, stop, stop. Oh God, don’t stop. Don’t stop. I just want to forget. I want a few fucking seconds to forget.
In reality:
He stood there, staring at her. Then he jerked his head toward the front door. Lacey saw the look on his face, and then of course she knew.
She offered Alan no explanation as to why she was drunk, crying, and spread-eagle in front of another man on the used leather couch. In their six years together, she had never cheated on Alan, not even close. The ceiling was really spinning now; it was just too much of an effort to sit up. That all changed when she saw Alan taking a swing at Mike. She rolled off the couch in a hopeless effort to stop him.
She didn’t bang her head on purpose, but in the end it saved Mike another punch. Alan had just landed one on Mike’s nose; blood gushed from his left nostril. Mike put his hands up to his face, trying to shield himself as he backed away. He didn’t attempt to hit Alan back; he was an artist, not a fighter.
Lacey fell face forward onto the edge of the coffee table, which ironically was made by Mike. He got to hit back after all, except it was Lacey who took the blow. The table was solid wood framed in steel. A beautiful piece of functional art, but not when you’re smashing into it face-first. Her left eye took the brunt of it as her hands slipped on the side, impaling her palms with little splinters. Pain seared through her frontal lobe, and blood trickled down her cheek.
Lacey wondered if Alan believed in a just God at that moment or, at least, Good Old Karma. She certainly did. Luckily, it turned out to be just her eyebrow that was slashed; her eye was still intact. She knew she was an almost-cheater and all, but she didn’t think she deserved to be struck blind. Just because Helen Keller lived an amazing life, didn’t mean it was the lifestyle for her. Alan must have yelled at Mike to get out, for he was promptly heading for the exit. Lacey stared at the back of his head as he left and couldn’t help wondering—had he been turned on at all?
Alan brought her ice in a towel, held it while she dressed, handed it to her when she was clothed. It was the second time a man had handed her a towel today. What were the odds of that? What were the odds of having an identical twin sister you never knew existed? The absurdity almost made her laugh, and she had to use every ounce of energy not to. Alan wouldn’t have understood. She sat on the floor with her back against the couch and held the ice-filled towel up to her wound, leaving only her right eye free to meet Alan’s equally cold stare. He sat in the La-Z-Boy chair, leaning forward, elbows on knees, chin on fists, indignant, righteous, and pained.
“Nothing happened,” Lacey signed. Her signs were jerky, slurred.
“Are you kidding me?” Alan said.
“He didn’t do anything,” Lacey said. “He just stood there.”
“What did you do, Lacey? What the hell were you doing?”
I have a sister, she thought. Followed by you’re never going to forgive me. Then something caught Alan’s eye and he flew off the chair and stood next to one of Lacey’s easels. He was looking at the large sketch pad where Lacey had written the cons of getting married for Robert. Lacey watched Alan’s shoulders tense.
“You knew?” he said, turning around and pointing to Engagement Ring. Lacey looked away. “Divorce. Fat. Paranoid. The End of Love.” Alan paced with each utterance, walking back and forth on a four-foot path he cut out for himself in front of Lacey. Then he slumped back into the chair and alternated between staring at the list and staring at her. She knew he was about to cry and she couldn’t watch. She just couldn’t take it.
“Where’s Rookie?” Lacey said. At first, Alan glared at her as if it were the worst possible thing she could’ve said. But after a minute, he too looked around. Then, a strange feeling invaded Lacey’s legs. It felt as if som
eone were chewing on them. She shook them out, but the feeling remained. “Shit,” she said, not bothering to sign. She was still drunk, but this time she made every effort to haul herself up. Once she was on her feet, she stumbled in the direction of her work space.
She saw Rookie just ahead, splayed out on one of her horse paintings, jaw gnashing up and down. She dropped the towel and attempted a run. She wasn’t even thinking about Alan or what he’d just caught her doing; she felt as if she were going to die. She fell to her knees in front of Rookie and pried his jaws open with her hands. He fought her with his paws, but she was stronger and more determined. She reached into his hot, pink mouth and pulled out the drool-smeared, severed toy horse. Alan must have thought she was trying to save Rookie from choking, for he picked up Rookie and said, “He’s all right, he’s all right.” But Lacey was still examining her horse. Something about her expression must have finally clued him in, for Alan set Rookie on the floor, knelt in front of Lacey, and signed, “What the fuck is going on?”
Lacey looked at Alan. “Me nothing,” she signed back. “Damaged. Parents throw. Trash. Hearing twin keep. Hearing twin keep. Sister. Sister sister sister sister sister sister.”
Chapter 9
Monica Bowman closed her eyes and listened to the murmur of the crowd. This was the part she loved best. A few stolen moments before she went on, listening from the wings, or in this case, partitioned cubicle walls, allowing the overlapping voices from the audience to rush over her, empower her. She was here to give them hope, yet they gave her strength. She was happy to hear male voices in the mix; when she started out, it had been all females. But the messages were powerful enough to transcend gender, and although part of her hated to admit it, having males take her seriously had tremendously boosted her career. Not only was The Architect of Your Soul rising in the ranks on Amazon, but ever since the men started coming, her workshop attendance had doubled.